The Wars of Nations
by i-really-heichou
Summary: Jean Kirschtein, commander of what remains of the Scouting Legion along with Corporal Mikasa Ackerman are veterans of the final battle against the Titans, striving to free the previous leaders of the military branches under severe, judicial persecution for waging attacks against humans in the forms of Titans.


Mikasa Ackerman holds grudges.

It is one of many cracks that threaten to break her seemingly resound character, fatal perhaps in the fact that she harbors her trust from people that have wronged her, instinct in the sense that those that have attempted to do so have endangered herself and the people she values. She holds a contradicting sense of pride to the trait, firmly planting the rest of her very being in rigid ideology. It is what drove her to bury a blade in the back of Annie's neck, stain her hands Bertholdt's blood and watch Reiner be torn to pieces.

Eren used to hold grudges.

Towards the end of his life, whatever molten passion he possessed was curbed at the on sight of his demise, yet he held on to them, a venomous hatred against the Titan shifters, against the Wall Cult, against Grisha, against himself. In some regards, her unshakeable will is all that remains of him.

That, and the red scarf knotted between her fingers. Mikasa draws the fabric over her nose, expecting nothing more than her own trademark scent and the lingering remains of Jean's cologne, yet perhaps between the threads, there is a permanent fragment of Eren stained in the framework.

It happens at random, memories that flutter before her eyes and nearly cripple her with sensory overload. Jean is usually there to steady her, drag her back towards the land of the living, but he is currently entertaining Commander Brzenska and has left her to explore the Military Headquarters. Mikasa's feet then led her to the courtroom, moving on their own accord under the guidance of a map she failed to recall.

The room is polished, well kept despite the state of construction the rest of Headquarters endures. Altogether, the space holds an haunting sensation within its barren pews and empty pulpit. Mikasa inevitably looks at the center stage where—what seemed like an eternity ago— Eren sat chained, pleading for his life. He too begged before the jury. It was such an eerie sight, like she was reliving a nightmare.

Jean's footsteps echo against the walls. He is aware of the noise, tries to lessen his step so that he doesn't surprise her, but Mikasa turns in time to watch him take the seat beside her. Jean is clutching a bulging folder of files, lips drawn southward. "I thought I'd find you in here," he exclaims, hoping that the lightness in his tone combats the foreboding weight the room. "I spoke to High Commander Arl—Armin. I spoke to Armin. He gave us permission to visit him."

A sigh of relief. The knot in her shoulders unwinds upon exhalation and Mikasa weaves her hand through his. "Now?"

"Now. But you don't have to come if you don't want to, I mean—it's perfectly okay—"

"I want to see him," she states, standing up and dragging him along with her. "I want to see him."

This time, Mikasa says it for herself, asserting the sway in conscience. Anxiety wracks her nerves and she is suddenly aware of the quickening in her pulse.

Jean squeezes her hand, offering a brief moment of comfort as he leads her out of the courtroom. The tunnels beneath Headquarters were miraculously intact after the fall of Wall Sina, and they navigate the underground labyrinth with ease. Jean every now and then recites what happened at the meeting with the newly appointed commander of the Stationary Guard, yet he knows, as well as she does, that their future encounter overrides such petty exchanges. It is only when they stop that Mikasa feels as though she is allowed to breathe once more.

"You're more alike than you would like to admit."

She doesn't acknowledge his statement, rather, lets the words blanket the minimal space between them and turn sour in the air. They stand side by side, spines steeled, arms folded behind their backs mimicking each other's stature like the reflection in a mirror.

The two of them are different in appearance, however, this ugly twist in fortune reverts them back to their sixteen year old selves still trembling under the command of a war not yet won. Jean turns, letting his gaze fall upon his corporal. Her jaw is clenched, eyes narrowed at the gaping abyss that greets them on the other side of the barred jail cell.

"Levi," she says, tone serrated by overwhelming authority. "You are hereby charged with mass murder and treason against humanity. Do you object to these accusations?"

All she can see is a faint outline of something move with the flow of the shadows. A sharp, maniacal string of laughter streams from an unseen source.

"Ackerman," the voice says, haggard with the slightest twinge of bitter amusement. "It's nice to see you again."

"It's Corporal to you, sir."


End file.
